Cures for a Nightmare
by Besina
Summary: John is having nightmares again; Sherlock's feeling guilty, he tries to find some way to calm his friend down. Slash/Hurt/Comfort/sleepy!John


Cures for a Nightmare  
>Written by Besina, February 2012<p>

Rated: M  
>Characters: Sherlock, John<br>Story Type: Friendship, Slash, Sleepy!John  
>Warnings: Spoilers for Season 2, Dub Con<p>

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of Sherlock and John and mean no copyright infringement by bringing them out to play, nor do I make any money by writing this fanfic.

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><p>Sherlock sat in the chair in John's darkened bedroom. He'd been there most of the night watching, and feeling guilty. John had been having nightmares again, and yelling; they'd seemed to have gotten worse since the visit to the Baskerville facility. He was sure it was his fault.<p>

It had seemed a logical thing to do at the time; he'd needed data on how the drug could affect human perception of a threat. John might have even volunteered if Sherlock had asked him, but that was the point – the subject couldn't be aware of their exposure or the results would be skewed. Still, probably shouldn't have picked John.

His train of thought derailed as John started thrashing about in his bed again; another nightmare, the fourth or fifth one of the night. He was breathing hard, his legs trying to run, something sub-vocal escaping from his lips. Sherlock leaned in to hear better; just syllables, then "Sher… Sher… RUN!" tears flowed down his cheeks as he stopped thrashing and just began a soft mantra of "no…no…no…," over and over again.

Sherlock shifted his weight to the bed. "John," he whispered, "John, what's wrong?"

Silent tears continued streaming down John's face. "Sherlock," the name came out as a half-gulp.

"I'm sorry John; I'm sorry for what I did…"

John cut him off, still caught up in his dream. "Sher ... the hound ... his throat. Oh god!" he began minutely rocking side to side on the bed, whispering ,"'m sorry, sorry, Sher.. should've been me. God no..no…"

A cold sweat suddenly broke out along Sherlock's brow and neck, as he realized, even in his dreams, John was trying to protect him; and his worst nightmares, mostly inflicted by Sherlock, seemed to be worsened for John by Sherlock dying in them.

Sherlock moved up the bed, laying a steadying hand on John's chest, then slowly rubbed his hand over it in small circles, until John seemed to start to calm down. Fresh tears still streamed down his cheeks, however. In a low voice, Sherlock tried to reassure him: "Shh…shh…I'm here, John. The hound didn't get me. You did fine. Fine..."

"I love you, Sherlock," John's voice croaked out. "I'm sorry.."

Sherlock leaned over John to determine he was, in fact, still dreaming. "No, John," he whispered, "I'm sorry." A formless impulse took him, and he slid himself up and over John's body; Sherlock's arms holding himself just barely above his friend, breathing in his scent. He slowly lowered his lips onto John's, holding them in a barely tangible kiss. John's breathing hitched for a moment, then he sighed, relaxing for the first time in over an hour.

"Do you like that, John?" whispered Sherlock. John's breathing steadied. He was still asleep, but the nightmare seemed to have abated.

"John, what else would you like?" he asked, his lips ghosting over his friend's again, John didn't answer but a soft smile made its way across his sleeping features.

"Would you like this?" asked Sherlock, slowly pushing up John's t-shirt and pressing his lips to John's sternum, then slowly across his chest.

"Mmm," John sighed contentedly.

"What else?" asked Sherlock softly, "what else, John?"

"Mmm…hair," John muttered happily.

Sherlock bit his lip to stifle a laugh as he played his fingers softly across John's sleeping chest. "Hair?" he smiled, "You like my hair, John?"

A muffled "mphf" and a fleeting smile seemed to confirm this.

Sherlock slowly lifted John's hand and placed it atop his locks, then resumed kissing down his chest.

John's fingers laced into his curls, a contented sigh issuing from his lips. "Soft," he murmured, then he tried to roll over; Sherlock was in his way.

"Not yet, soldier," breathed Sherlock. "I still have some apologizing to do." He sank lower onto John's stomach, still playing his lips and fingers over him, leaving warm kisses and soft touches in his wake. John's fingers seemed to knead sleepily through his curls, with a cat-like contentment.

He felt John's cock twitch below him, as his chest pressed against his sleeping flat-mate's groin. Smiling he lifted himself up again, pressing their bodies together from chest to hips, placed another soft kiss upon John's lips, then softly breathed in his ear, "Would you like me to take care of that for you John?"

A barely distinguishable nod gave Sherlock his answer, and he slowly lowered himself back down, placing kisses along John's tear-stained cheek, along his jaw and across his chest, stopping momentarily to flick his tongue over John's hardening nipples. He kept his ministrations lighter than he would have liked, still not wishing to wake his friend, who might otherwise be horrified at what he'd admitted to in his sleep.

He ghosted down over John's stomach once more, lightly touching, kissing, stroking, until he came to his boxers. He lifted the waistband gently, and slowly pulled them down over John's hips, freeing his now rigid cock. Sherlock gazed fondly at it, and back up at his friend, keeping his eyes locked on John, as he slowly lowered his mouth onto it, suckling, teasing, and flipping his tongue about.

John moaned and shifted his hips slightly.

He saw John's face relax into a look of bliss, before he turned his attention directly to his cock, slowly increasing his pressure as he dragged his lips up and down the hardening shaft, dipping lower each time he took him in, then slowly pulling back, playing his tongue around the glans before beginning again.

He felt John's hand come down and tangle in his curls once more, as John gave a satisfied moan, very slightly rocking his hips toward Sherlock's mouth.

Sherlock picked up the pace gradually, but still managed to keep it slow and rhythmic – dreamlike; that was the goal.

Satisfied hums and moans drifted from John nearly continuously as Sherlock continued his work, softly cupping and stroking John's balls, sucking diligently on his cock, varying his position and speed minutely.

He felt John's balls begin to tighten, just as his breathing became irregular: Sherlock worked to get John all the way down his throat before the first hot burst of come coated it. He held on, lightly kneading John's buttocks as he grunted and came again, Sherlock working his throat to swallow and massage the tip of John's cock simultaneously. A third spurt, a moan from John, and he felt his friend relax into the bed, making soft, contented sounds.

Sherlock swallowed once more, then cleaned off John's cock, gently sucking upward, before releasing him from his mouth. He peered up at John's face: relaxed, a loose smile on his lips, and yes, still sleeping. He delicately pulled up the boxers, smoothed down the t-shirt, moved from the bed, and tucked John in.

He hoped that now his friend would have something more pleasant to dream about than vicious hounds and failure. He dropped a quick kiss onto John's head, and whispered, "I'm fine, John. I'm fine. I'll always be fine with you around." Then turned and softly made his way out of the room to his own, to catch a few hours of sleep, and bask in his own dreams of what had just transpired.

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><p>The next morning found Sherlock again at his microscope as John made his way sleepily down the stairs, toward his first cup of tea.<p>

Sherlock glanced up, smiled briefly, then went back to his work.

"What was that for?" inquired John.

"What was what?" he asked, still not looking up from his work.

"That smile."

"Oh that." Sherlock looked back up. "You've got bed-head." John made to smooth down his hair, "No, don't. You look rather endearing that way," remarked Sherlock, again turning back to his work.

John stilled, not sure what to think of his flat-mate calling him endearing. Then he shrugged: that was just Sherlock being Sherlock, he supposed.

John puttered about the kitchen, finished making tea and toast, placed some for Sherlock at his elbow with the faint hope that he'd ingest something, and took his own over to the couch, flicking on the television.

Shortly thereafter, Sherlock joined him, stretching out on the couch and laying his head in John's lap. John immediately froze and stared down at Sherlock.

"Could you do me a favor, John?" He waited a beat for a reply but none seemed to be forthcoming, clearly John was befuddled. "I've got one hell of a headache, probably from squinting through that microscope for too long. Could you um…"

John's eyebrows raised, waiting for Sherlock to continue.

"Well, it sounds a bit ridiculous, but could you stroke my hair? It helps." Sherlock sounded a bit lost and looked up at John pleadingly.

John smiled and set his dishes down quickly on the side-table.

"Sure, Sherlock, sure." He threaded his fingers gently through Sherlock's hair, massaging lightly as he went. It felt just as good as he had imagined, and he gently carded his fingers through it again.

Sherlock closed his eyes and breathed contentedly. Maybe it wouldn't be long before they could repeat their performance, he hoped, only this time with an awake and fully participating John, though sleepy John had been fun. His breathing almost turned to a purr as John continued to pet his head.

_This_, thought John, _was an excellent way to begin a day_.

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><p><strong>Notes:<strong>

Thanks for reading! I can be found on Tumblr as BesinaAo3

Please do not repost or distribute this work on any other site.  
>For translation permissions, please see my AO3 profile - username Besina<p> 


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